


Promise Me All of Your Violent Dreams

by doorwaytoparadise, MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, But it's there, Crowley's Mustache, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Strong Aziraphale, Tony (1970s Crowley), Wall Sex, like you gotta squint to see it, technically bookshelf sex, we WILL get that a canon tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25020052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: He sits to his work, hearing the tick of the clock, quickly becoming absorbed in the missives and the nonsense.  The knife, sharpened perfectly, slicing through the paper as though through butter.  The pleasantly soft sound of fibers splitting, relinquishing secrets.He doesn’t hear the shop door open.He doesn’t hear the footsteps falling in the shop.He doesn’t hear the figure sneaking up behind him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 199
Collections: Shinbi34's Recommendations, Stayin' Julive - The Tony Month Collection





	Promise Me All of Your Violent Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Tony Month!!!
> 
> I am new to the Gospel of Tony but damn if doorwaytoparadise and elizabethelizabeth didn't get me indoctrinated on the QUICK.
> 
> doorwaytoparadise did the art in this fic, I did the words - it was completed in a feral haze in the group chat because that's how we do things xD

It’s quiet in the bookshop. Silent. Another end to another long day. Days are still much longer for Aziraphale, ever since that night in that car. Ever since that thermos. Ever since that moment.

Best not to think about it.

He sits at his desk, intent to catch up on things; the rigamarole of the average shopkeeper. A pile of letters sits unopened, tallies unmarked, books unread. He’ll start with the letters.

He reaches in the desk drawer, takes out a knife. A mildly ridiculous thing for this day and age, but it works well enough. One he got while on a hunt with some of Her Majesty’s Finest back in the 1870s. Still perfectly serviceable as a letter opener; he never could come round to skinning the foxes.

He sits to his work, hearing the tick of the clock, quickly becoming absorbed in the missives and the nonsense. The knife, sharpened perfectly, slicing through the paper as though through butter. The pleasantly soft sound of fibers splitting, relinquishing secrets.

He doesn’t hear the shop door open.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps falling in the shop.

He doesn’t hear the figure sneaking up behind him.

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

He’s on his feet in an instant, soldier’s instincts taking over, crowding the intruder against a bookshelf. He pins the man with his hips, his chest, his entire body; puts the knife to his throat, bares his teeth.

He takes in the man, all in black, copper hair just a bit too long, sunglasses in the dark—

“Oh, heaven’s,” Aziraphale says as he jumps backwards; knife clattering to the floor, “Crowley, you scared the living daylights out of me.”

Crowley just stands there, mouth agape, glasses sliding down his nose. Unblinking and unmoving, a statue for the world to see. His knees are bent, his back is stiff against the bookshelf.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, stepping closer, “Crowley, dear, are you alright?” He reaches out a tentative hand, touching Crowley lightly on the shoulder. It snaps the demon out of his haze immediately.

Aziraphale barely has time to react as Crowley’s lips are on his, insistent and desperate and rough in the best possible way. Aziraphale’s hands come up to tangle in Crowley’s hair, gripping and tugging and drawing the most wonderful sounds out of him. He teases at Aziraphale’s lips with his tongue and Aziraphale opens up for him willingly, letting the old walls crumble around him.

How long has he wanted this? How long has he wondered if Crowley’s kiss would burn him from the inside out, just as deeply as this incessant longing?

Crowley runs his fingertips over the buttons on Aziraphale’s waistcoat; a request for permission. Aziraphale wants to drown in him, wants to feel his skin against the demon’s. Wants everything he’s been denying himself for nigh on six thousand years.

“Wait,” he says, pushing Crowley away with the last presence of mind he can muster, “Is this ok? Is this what you want?”

“Wanted it for a long time, angel,” Crowley says as he buries his face in Aziraphale’s neck, trailing searing hot kisses up the line of it, scratching the sensitive skin with his ridiculous mustache. Aziraphale hates how much he enjoys it. “I like that wild look you got about you just now, looked like you might smite me.” Crowley whispers these words into Aziraphale’s skin. He runs his tongue along Aziraphale’s jaw, flicking it against his chin before crashing their lips together once again.

Aziraphale’s hands find their way to the buttons on Crowley’s ridiculous trousers, making fast work of them. Crowley breaks the kiss just long enough to shimmy out of them before letting himself be pinned back against the bookshelf and thoroughly kissed again.

A quick miracle and Aziraphale’s hand is slick, wrapping around Crowley’s length. He moans, back arching off the bookcase, thrusting into Aziraphale’s hand. The sight of Crowley chasing his pleasure from Aziraphale’s own hand is nearly enough to undo him.

Aziraphale crowds against him again, pressing him into the bookcase, growling low in his ear, “Let me take care of you, darling.” If he puts a bit of that guardian side — that side that was ready to smite Crowley off the planet for sneaking up on him — into his voice, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

“Angel, please, I want you,” Crowley gasps into their shared airspace as Aziraphale noses the v of chest hair peeking out of the demons shirt. He runs his tongue slowly, so _torturously_ slowly along a sharp collarbone. Relishes the hitch in Crowley’s breathing, relishes being the one to cause it.

In a quick and fluid motion, he scoops Crowley up by the arse, throwing both of the demon’s legs over his shoulders. “Might want to brace yourself, dear,” he says with a smirk before taking Crowley’s cock into his mouth.

Crowley grips the bookshelf behind him, bucking up into Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale grips his hips tighter to still him before pulling back off, “No, darling, not until I say so.” He puts as much steel into his words as he can, watching the effect of it dance across Crowley’s features, “You can be good for me, can’t you, Crowley?”

Crowley swallows thickly as his glasses slide the rest of the way off his face, noise like a gunshot in the quiet of the bookshop. “Yeah, angel, wh…whatever you need from me, I can be good.”

“That’s what I thought.” Aziraphale says, trailing gentle kisses up Crowley’s inner thigh, studiously avoiding touching him where he really wants. “And if you’re good for me, if you let me take care of you, what do you suppose happens then?” Crowley answers with a mumble. “I didn’t hear you, dove, you’ll need to use your words.”

“I’ll…I’ll get rewarded?” Crowley says with clear trepidation. The yellow of his eyes has taken over completely, control faltering.

Aziraphale places a soft kiss to the tip of his cock, spreads the precome with his tongue, listens to the demon keen. “That’s exactly right,” he says before taking Crowley back into his mouth, sinking all the way down. 

Crowley’s feet dig into Aziraphale’s back as he gasps, but he stays still, does as he’s told. Aziraphale sets a slow and agonizing pace, taking his time and savoring the salt sweat of Crowley’s skin. Crowley’s knuckles are white where they grip the bookshelf; so hard that the wood is starting to splinter.

Aziraphale pulls off of him, “You can touch me, Crowley.” The permission is like flipping a switch. Crowley’s hands come up and tangle in Aziraphale’s hair, gripping tight like a lifeline as he cries out.

Aziraphale grips Crowley by the ass, keeping him pinned right where he is. Back arching off the bookcase, head lolling to either side. Crowley is lost in pleasure, and Aziraphale smiles around his cock. His hand is still slick, and he takes a moment to work one finger into Crowley’s entrance.

Crowley’s hips cant involuntarily before he can stop them. He looks down at Aziraphale, who nods. He’s been so good after all, and he was promised a prize.

Crowley grips his hair tight and fucks into his mouth, chasing his release. Aziraphale himself is close, despite not being touched. Crowley is babbling at this point, no actual words to be had as he bucks up into Aziraphale’s mouth before grinding back down on his finger.

Aziraphale can feel his cock twitch in his trousers, the sight and the sound of Crowley like this, under his hands and under his tongue, it’s a special kind of maddening of it’s own. He works in a second finger as Crowley writhes against him.

“Close… angel…” he gasps out, barely able to form a coherent thought. Aziraphale sinks all the way onto his cock, making his meaning clear. Crowley lets go and spills down his throat; Aziraphale’s own release follows soon after. Untouched and still trapped in his trousers.

Aziraphale pulls off of him, helping him down, helping him find his legs. Cooing praise to him as he does.

“You did so _good_ for me, darling. So very wonderful.” With every bit of praise Crowley goes more boneless in his arms. His legs are wobblier than usual, and Aziraphale notes this with more than a little pride in his performance.

“Did… did you….” Crowley breathes out heavily, gesturing to the spreading wetness on Aziraphale’s trousers.

“What can I say, darling, you were quite a sight,” Aziraphale says as he helps Crowley back into his own.

“Is it the mustache? Thought I’d try it, latest craze and all, hear it’s very sexy,” Crowley says, wiggling his eyebrow, trying to be cool and failing miserably.

Good Lord, Aziraphale loves him.

“Yes of course, dearest,” Aziraphale says, wrapping his arms around Crowley once more, kissing his cheek, his nose, and, yes, even the ridiculous mustache. “Completely irresistible. Now, what did you need, exactly, before you so rudely interrupted me?”

“Ngk…I… well…” Crowley stammers, face flushed and red, “Can’t actually remember…”

There will be conversation, later, about this whole thing. Tomorrow morning, perhaps, maybe not til years down the road. But for now, both spent and exhausted, they make their way to the backroom. To the old sofa that fits them both perfectly — almost miraculously so — where this particular night in 1972, an angel and a demon spend an evening wrapped up in each other’s arms and each other’s company.

  
  



End file.
